


Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Assassin AU, Basically a prologue to John Wick, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Bucky is beyond soft for Steve, Does it count as a Meet Cute if one of them is bleeding, Eventual Smut, Gun Violence, Identity Issues, John Wick AU, Lots of guns, M/M, Mild Fluff here and there, Modern Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, smol angry Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Yakov is a ghost, nothing more, nothing less. He's worked for the Red Room for years, their most successful assassin to date, an unmatched marksman with a ruthlessness legendary in the business.When a routine hit goes sour, Yakov realizes he's been set up by the very people who employ him. The ghost who all assassins fear becomes haunted by his own specters, the ghosts of a past he never wanted to leave behind but had to, after the Director saved his life all those years ago.Yakov runs for his life -- and runs right into Steve Rogers, an employee of SHIELD, five feet and four inches of righteous fury; and the remains of who Yakov used to be fight even harder to resurface.But can a ghost ever relearn how to be a man?





	1. Ante Bellum

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Welcome to my first shrinkyclinks fic! I anticipate it being about five chapters with plenty of action (both the fighting kind and the sexy kind). 
> 
> Basically, I saw John Wick 3, and I thought to myself the entire time, _what if Bucky left his life as an assassin to love/marry Steve?_ and lo, this fic was born.
> 
> Consider it a pre-John Wick AU, aka the whole "John Wick leaves being an assassin to marry the love of his life" storyline that happens before John Wick. 
> 
> **warnings**
> 
> If you haven't read one of my fics before, know that I typically dump plenty of warnings in the beginning notes!
> 
> As a general warning - there's going to be a LOT of violence in this fic, most of it being gun violence. I'll try to keep the deaths as non-graphic as possible (i.e. no drawn out depictions of death/gore) but Bucky _is_ an assassin, and will be killing people when necessary. 
> 
> This chapter opens up with Bucky killing about eleven people without blinking.
> 
> Non-graphic stab wound inflicted on main character.
> 
> Lots of cursing.

The sun isn’t even a hint on the eastern horizon when Yakov crouches on the roof of a building in Manhattan; he adjusts the DTA Stealth Recon Scout in his hands as he gazes through the scope, watching for any sign of trouble on the street level when he pulls back slightly. If he had a favorite gun, this one would be in the running, but he’s not much in the business of having favorites. He isn’t a boy anymore.

At least, that’s what Pierce tells him.

His fingers tighten reflexively on the rifle, and a treacherous thought floats through his mind -- one that he’s had an increasingly difficult time dismissing these past few months since Budapest.

_What if he didn’t do this anymore?_

It’s all he’s known for years, since Pierce saved him from a lifetime of misery and neglect and pain. The old man had put a gun in his hand with a smile on his face and encouraged the talents that barely needed encouragement. The boy he used to be had died, and Yakov took his place, a ghost, a soldier for the Red Room, permanently indebted to the Director.

That debt brings him here today, after all. Another hit for the Red Room, another few years off of Yakov’s sentence. _Not that a dog as loyal as you would care to leave us, right, Yakov?_ Pierce had said with a laugh sharper than the knives hidden under Yakov’s shirt, in his boot, at his belt. He, at least, didn’t have to smile at the comment. The soldier of the Red Room does not smile.

Reflection is a luxury he can’t afford, however; the target emerges from his hotel, eyes locked on the screen in his hand, and bodyguards flanking him.

The man’s in town for the one thing that all wicked men search for: money. This target is the sort who believes he’s doing right, but as Yakov has learned in his time at the Red Room, wicked men often believe in their righteousness. The Red Room exists to correct this folly, and Yakov exists to serve the Red Room.

Senator Harold “Harry” Baxtor doesn’t look up from his phone once as Yakov checks the rifle one last time, ready to fire.

It’s a cool morning, slight breeze. Slight reflection of a street lamp off the car behind Baxtor’s transport, but Yakov has already adjusted to it, and to the slight breeze, northwest, promising rain later.

One bullet, and he can rest for a few days, maybe a few weeks. One bullet, and Pierce might let him come home.

Yakov takes one, short breath, more to find the quiet necessary to aim true than for any sort of conviction. This will be a clean kill, no fuss. No need to worry.

His finger tenses, and a fraction of a second later, the bullet cuts through the air, a precise shot that he knows will hit the target the second it leaves the barrel.

It does not hit the target.

The target is pushed out of the way by a bodyguard, a burly man with red hair who leaps with almost superhuman agility to save the senator. Yakov gapes in shock at the sight, a rare instance for him; it’s not often the ghost of the Red Room, the Winter Soldier is surprised. Too bad there’s no one here to see it.

Gazing through the scope again, he can see Baxtor looking shocked and pale. He can also see the bodyguard looking up at the roofs. Right at him.

Cursing silently, he stands, and that’s when his ears pick up on it.

The sound of boots on the stairwell behind him.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he snarls, already running for the side of the roof. “ _Fuck_ it.”

He doesn’t even think before jumping.

Yakov’s been here for hours, so he knows that there’s a fire escape fifteen feet below the roofline; he knows it’s an easy jump to a large truck that’s parked on the street, and when his feet rattle the hitch, he’s already swung the rifle up, firing off four rounds in quick succession, ignoring the pain that lances up his left leg when he lands on it the wrong way, haste making him messy.

First bodyguard, down. Second, right behind the first. Third, staggers slightly before falling, but even if he’s not dead, Yakov doubts he’ll get back up any time soon. The fourth, the large one with red hair, takes a hit to the chest but doesn’t fall, and when Yakov lands gracefully on the street, eyeing the rooftop he just vacated, and still ignoring the throbbing in his leg, he realizes the man’s still standing.

They stare at each other for a second, and then Yakov sees the senator cowering behind him. Without even a snarl, he stalks forward, rifle raised; the bodyguard has a SAI Glock pointed at him already, but Yakov merely steps to the side, and the bullet intended for his lower gut rips past him. Two more shots leave his rifle, and these end up in the bodyguard’s head.

The senator’s terrified beyond speech when Yakov nears him, and he stares at the man impassively while he sobs. Before Baxtor can figure out a way to reason with a ghost, a way to plead for his life, he’s dead.

Yakov doesn’t need anything, after all. It would have been a waste of a final breath to offer him anything.

The men who’d been running for the roof spill out onto the street, and Yakov feels a faint hint of exasperation -- there are _more_? Ridiculous.

 _Why send ten men to get one senator to a car?_ He wonders distantly. The thought narrows, winnows down, and becomes much less distant.

Why _are_ there ten men?

He squats behind the armored vehicle the senator had attempted to enter right as the first rounds hit; Yakov rifles through the large, red-haired bodyguard’s pockets, hoping for an itinerary or a form of identification. The man’s head rolls to the side, and Yakov gets his answers without any sort of paper.

A tentacled skull stares up at him, and he releases the man with a hiss of what could be fear, if he felt anything as common as fear these days.

_Hydra._

The table under which the Red Room operates.

It’s a bad hit. Of course it’s a bad hit.

This thing had gone to shit in less than thirty seconds, and Yakov had, in his pride, simply accepted how easy it had been to get sightlines on the senator’s car, how easy it had been to lie in wait for four hours. He was intended to be caught in all this.

_Fool._

Through his indignant surprise, Yakov had been counting. He’s a professional after all.

Realizing his window will end soon, Yakov stands quickly, rifle empty and abandoned at the side of the truck, cast aside on the Hydra bodyguard to look like it had been his. His Glock is a familiar weight in his hand, and as he fires off quickly, the part of him not overwhelmed by the grittiness of shock thinks that _this_ might actually be his favorite.

Some of the men scatter successfully, but three more go down; as the rest cower away from the spray of bullets, desperately trying to reload, Yakov slides over the front of the armored car and stalks towards them, reloading with the cold efficiency he’s famous for, cold enough to earn him the nickname _Winter._

The man hiding behind the truck is the first to die; his expression can’t even morph to one of shock before he’s dead. Yakov makes eye contact with the second before he, too, is dead. The man’s last inhalation is tinged with fear, and his last exhalation is a name familiar to Yakov.

“ _Бáба-Ягá._ ”

Yakov does not respond to the name. Baba Yaga never responds. He is the boogeyman, the stuff of nightmares and legends, and the thought brings him no pride. Few things do. Killing certainly doesn’t.

At least, he tells himself it doesn’t.

The sixth man finishes reloading, and Yakov prepares to stare him down, but notices a car turning right, onto the street they stand on. The windows roll down, and his eyes widen; more are coming.

He fires at the man still outside the car, and turns to run. He doesn’t even listen for the sound of body hitting pavement; even on the run, the Winter Soldier doesn’t miss.

The city wakes up around him as he sprints, dodging out of alleys and around corners. A few cars slow, and paranoia gets the better of him, causing him to run and run.

When he turns down an alley near Midtown, a rattle to his immediate left catches his attention. He pivots, panting wildly, but all he sees is a cat clambering out of its nighttime shelter.

“Good kitty,” he murmurs, reaching out for the beast to snuffle at him. After a tentative sniff, it tilts its head for scratches, and he provides them idly, his eyes on the street outside.

“I have to go now,” he informs the cat, who meows at him plaintively. “Thank you.”

Another meow bids him farewell, but Yakov is running before he can regret it. As he exits the alley, a blinding pain stretches across his side.

Some bastard, lying in wait, knife in hand; Yakov barely looks at him before pulling out his own knife, well aware that his opponent cannot match him in this form of combat. The cut across his side was shallow, and perhaps less than six inches long. Stitches might even be optional. He doubts the would-be assassin of an assassin has ever held a knife before.

He’s dead a minute and a half later, and Yakov _knows_ he’s never held a knife before. Precious moments are wasted as he drags the man into the alley and throws him behind the trash, hoping that whatever caused this bad hit to fall at his door won’t prevent him from accessing the Red Room’s clean-up services.

Eyeing the street one last time, Yakov begins to run towards Midtown again. There’s a safe house there, one no one, not even Pierce, knows about, and if he can get there, he can clean his wound and consider his options. Now that the sun has come up, turning the already bleak city grey in its early light, he hopes he doesn’t look too out of place as he runs up streets filling with professionals.

He wears a suit, always, his hair in a bun to keep it from falling in his eyes when he aims; he is grateful for the uniform traditional to Red Room employees, as it means he looks more like a harried pencil pusher than a murderer favoring the leg he didn’t land on after jumping from a roof.  

Avengers Tower looms in the distance as he runs, and for a wild second he imagines what it would feel like to feel protected by the sight of SHIELD’s most precious asset. Instead, he scurries in front of it like the rat he is, his heart in his throat, the adrenaline surge passing and leaving him more tired by the second.

No matter what Pierce tried to make of him, Yakov is only a man.

And right now, he is a man on the run, surely about to die, running for his life; he is a man entering a crosswalk without so much as a glance over his shoulder, threading in and out of the pedestrian traffic, a man in a dead sprint for the safe house he prays no one yet knows the existence of.

He is only a man, and the man collides, painfully, with a person at the edge of the crosswalk right as the hand blinks from one to zero.

“Hey! What the fuck is your problem?”

Yakov blinks, startled from his growing panic by the harshness of the stranger’s voice. For a moment he frowns, looking to his right to see if there are any more knife-bearing assassins lunging towards him, but then he’s met with a less awful pain in his still good side.

The person he ran into just jabbed him in the stomach.

“What--?” Yakov stares down at the other person in bewilderment.

Did he really just _poke_ him? Like they were schoolchildren?

His bewilderment shifts rapidly to something of an entirely different breed as soon as he actually looks at the person he collided with.

He’s observant by nature, a trait only honed by practice. Yakov can memorize every detail of a person’s appearance with half a glance; he treats himself to more than a glance now, though, because the person he ran into is quite possibly the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Blonde, and slender enough that Yakov’s hand could wrap around his upper arm, with pale skin and a dusting of freckles the color of the butterscotch candies that Ivan had been so fond of: he’s dressed in a thin jacket that adds little bulk to a frame best described as delicate, and his pants are almost indecently tight, something Yakov forces himself not to think about too closely.

His blue eyes sparkle with barely contained rage up at Yakov, and all Yakov can do is keep from falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness.

“Hey! Pal! I asked you a question.” The long, slender finger is back, and jabs at Yakov’s side indiscriminately, a little lower this time, and he grunts in pain before he can stop himself.

Strong, expressive eyebrows lower then, and the stranger with an angel’s face frowns at him. “Pal?”

“I am sorry,” Yakov says earnestly. “I was...rushing--”

A bike speeds past him from behind, bell ringing out irritatingly, and he flinches away from it. The other man grabs him by the wrist and tugs him up onto the sidewalk fully.

“No shit you were rushing,” the man says in a pleasant, deep voice that does not match his stature.

He’s almost a full foot shorter than Yakov, sixty-four inches if he’s being generous, and his grip was firm if not powerful. The anger is not necessarily gone from his gaze, more held back to a greater extent, and Yakov can’t look away from the blue that reminds him so soothingly of the ocean on a hot Brooklyn day.

_A small girl’s laugh rises up from the sandcastle, and a dark head pops out, waving at James wildly. “Buggy!” She shrieks. “Buggy, look’t what I found!”_

_“You mean, look at what we have to put back, Becks?” Laughter bubbles out of his throat before he can catch it, and she knows she isn’t going to have to do that anytime soon. Happiness warms him more than the rays of the sun overhead, and Bucky leans over the ramparts of the castle to examine his sister’s catch, and --_

“Shit, you’re bleeding.”

Yakov blinks, the echo of the past receding as a car horn blares behind him, and the smaller man isn’t looking at his face anymore, instead staring at his midriff in open shock and fear.

“Y-yeah,” he laughs nervously. He doesn’t fully understand why he laughs. Winter does not laugh. The soldier of the Red Room does not even smile, so why does Yakov laugh now, at something that truly isn’t funny? “I - a car clipped me. I’m okay.”

“That’s a lot of blood,” the man murmurs, clearly not believing him. He leans in to examine Yakov’s side more, and Yakov studies the man in response, falling silent again in his investigation.

The blonde of the man’s hair has a slight darkness to it upon closer study, but it matches pleasantly with the paleness of his skin; the hair is messy, but artfully so, short on the sides and longer on top. Yakov wonders if the strands would be silky to the touch, as he imagines they would be, and he tightens his right hand into a fist to resist the temptation to find out. Four helix piercings along his right ear shine lightly in the growing daylight, and Yakov catches a glimpse of a hearing aid before the man straightens up.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” The little guy frowns up at him, and Yakov doesn’t want him to call the ambulance because it would take him away from this sidewalk and this man.

_Also, he doesn’t exactly exist, so that might not help._

Right. The real reason why emergency services would not be necessary.

“Nah.” He shakes his head with half a shrug. “I don’t need it.”

“Ah.” The beautiful man shakes his head as though in understanding, and Yakov stifles a hysterical laugh. Blood loss must be affecting him then. “No insurance, huh?”

“No.” It’s not exactly a lie. Insurance would require an identity, and he hasn’t had one of those in years.

“That’s awful,” the man snorts, and Yakov wonders how old he is, wonders if the red of his cheeks would be brought out in any kind of way besides anger, but then his wondering is cut short as the other man unleashes a torrent of righteous fury. “In this day and age, someone not being able to go to the hospital for an obvious, life-threatening injury! It’s abhorrent!”

“It’s not life-threatening,” Yakov mutters, and the man fixes him with a glare.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” he says drily, the words dripping with sarcasm, and Yakov pinches his lips shut to let the other man finish as he so clearly wants to. He can’t stop a small smile from forming as the speech continues. “I’m sure you’ve had many _other_ potentially life-threatening issues pop up that you’ve had to ignore, like so many other people in this country. But health care corporations -- and what a joke, let me tell you, calling themselves any kind of _care_ \-- love to take it out on the little guy! This country wasn’t created for people on top to watch those on the bottom starve and suffer and die of perfectly treatable conditions. It’s a mockery of the Constitution that they exploit us on the daily, and then we allow those assholes to push us around and take a steaming shit on the ideals of this nation just to make a few more pennies off of us!”

“Are you some kinda politician?” Yakov asks, even though Winter does not ask questions. Baba Yaga only ever needs one answer, and that is _death._

But this short, violently angry man has absolutely enchanted him, and he finds himself wondering what makes this beacon of fury tick besides anger.

“No.” The kid snorts and shakes his head. He jabs his thumb over his shoulder to the tower that looms behind him. “I work for SHIELD.”

It feels as though eighty thousand tons of steel have slammed into Yakov, a cold, harsh smack of reality. _SHIELD._ His enemy. The ones dedicated to ending the Red Room’s valiant efforts.

This breathtaking, tiny man works for SHIELD.

“And, I really do have to get to work,” the man sighs and shakes his head, eyeing Yakov appraisingly. “Are you sure you don’t need any help? Do you need me to, I don’t know, track down the guy that clipped you?’

He can’t help it. Yakov laughs.

He laughs so hard he wheezes, laughs so hard he can feel more blood joining the dry, sticky patch on the front of his short, and when he comes up to breathe, the smaller man is rolling his eyes and scoffing in disgust.

“No,” he gasps, apologetic again, scrambling for a way to recover from what’s clearly a mistake. Maybe he’s upset that Yakov implied he wouldn’t be of help? “No - I am - I am sorry, it’s just -- you can’t fight a car. No one can.”

The man’s full, lush mouth twitches; Yakov averts his eyes. Best not to stare at the mouths of SHIELD agents.

“You sound like my friends,” he says with a tone that’s almost amused, and Yakov relaxes.

“And what do your friends call you?” Yakov asks so smoothly, it feels like he’s eighteen years old, carefree, no blood on his hands.

The younger man looks taken aback, and Yakov scrambles again, heat rushing to his cheeks -- he is blushing, someone kill him because he is blushing, and what if someone sees that the deadliest killer in the Red Room is blushing -- ready to apologize for the obvious line, a careless and flirty quip that would cost both of them dearly.

The man recovers before he does.

“Steve.” He holds a thin hand out to him, the fingers long and graceful, small calluses barely noticeable here and there, where a pencil would rest -- an artist’s hand. “Steve Rogers.”

Yakov takes the offered hand and prays Steve Rogers can’t tell where his own calluses come from; the Glock sits, an unshakeable weight, in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Steve quirks his eyebrow expectantly a few seconds into their handshake, and Yakov realizes that he too needs to make an introduction, and he can’t use the one the Red Room gave him. But, neither does he want to lie to this beautiful man.

“Bucky,” he says. It feels like a confession. He prays it might bring him salvation. “My name’s Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve repeats with a slow smile. “Well, Bucky, I hope you don’t develop gangrene and die.” He nods towards the wound on Yakov’s side.

“Me too,” Yakov admits. “How else would I see you again?’

It’s another all too human moment in a morning of human mistakes, and this time, they both blush.

“D’you know Angie’s?” Steve nods over Yakov’s shoulder, his long fingers wrapping around the strap of his messenger bag as though nervous. Yakov can’t begin to imagine why Steve would be nervous, unless he had pieced together what Yakov really is.

Yakov shakes his head in response to Steve’s question.

“Hell of a diner. They make the best pancakes you’ve ever had. Meet me there on Saturday, nine o’clock. If you’re not dead.” Steve tilts his head with a sweet smile that’s almost as crooked as his nose, and Yakov’s helpless to do anything but nod.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his throat painfully dry. “That sounds -- yeah.”

“Yeah?” Steve snorts and shakes his head, giving Yakov a once over, which is clearly an effort to check him out. Yakov blushes, again, deeper. “See you then, Bucky.”

He’s already half a block away by the time Yakov manages to whisper, “See you.”

Yakov, Winter Solider, the Baba Yaga, the ghost who used to be a man, stares after Steve Rogers for a long time, wondering if he could stay rooted to this spot until nine o’clock on Saturday morning. That is, he stares after Steve Rogers until he feels someone else’s eyes on him, until he remembers that he is a tree who cannot afford roots.

Yakov glances over to see a man in a hooded sweatshirt staring at him; with a deep breath and one last look towards Avengers Tower, Yakov takes a step back into a throng of passersby and vanishes into the crowd like the ghost he is.


	2. Animae Dimidium Meae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yakov faces the Red Room and its fierce Director; the universe lets him see Steve Rogers again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> There's a few **warnings** for this chapter:
> 
> Main character stitches a wound on his own body
> 
> Yakov/Bucky's imaginings get a little E-rated
> 
> Gun violence//gunshot to the head//death (non-main character)
> 
>  
> 
> Continued confusing mental state -- Yakov has trouble remembering who he is
> 
> Yakov/Bucky kills another person, strangulation, non-graphic
> 
> Suggestion of exploitation/manipulation/mental conditioning (Yakov is loyal to Pierce as a result, well, loyal _for now_ )

Yakov grits his teeth, his back to the wall, and pours the antiseptic over the slash across his midriff.

He had returned to his safehouse fifteen minutes ago, and the clock is ticking for him to report to his debrief with the Director; after all, the call for Senator Baxtor’s head had been internal, and Pierce himself would be handling the fallout. Yakov has a feeling he doesn’t want to go in today, but if he doesn’t go in willingly, they will bring him in.

He doesn’t have much, but he still has a small amount of dignity.

So, he runs a lighter dispassionately along the large needle he pulled from a kit in an attempt to sterilize it, and begins to stitch up the wound he earned from the incompetent would-be killer that morning. He watches the thread flash in and out of his side without any sort of interest, but his lips do twitch upwards into a smile at what Steve Rogers would say if he could see the sort of medical care that Yakov was used to.

Steve Rogers would huff and puff, he has no doubt, to see the shoddy stitches Yakov is able to complete on himself. They’ll hold, and it will heal, and if he’s lucky, Pierce might send him to the actual doctor that the Red Room keeps on payroll; if he’s unlucky, he’ll be dead, so the quality of his stitches won’t matter much at all.

But Yakov has a feeling that Steve Rogers would run those slender, pale fingers of his over his side in concern, the redness of his cheeks flaring in indignation; he’d been so angry on behalf of Yakov’s -- Bucky’s -- lack of insurance on the street, Yakov wants to wonder what Steve might do if he knew the other things Bucky had been made to suffer.

The needle falters, here at the end of the wound, and Yakov stares at the floor quietly for a moment before tying the end of the thread and snapping it off. The floorboards offer him no answer as to why he cares if Steve Rogers would be angry on behalf of Bucky, a child who died so long ago. He refuses to let his mind wander to it, to the outrage and shock that would arrange those lovely features into an expression of an avenging angel. He refuses to imagine the heat of Steve Rogers’s skin under his palm, if he placed his hand on a soft, pale cheek while the small man was shouting about indignity and injustice and cruelty.

Yakov does not particularly care about the things that have been done to him; but, Steve Rogers fussing over him as if those things actually matter is … a temping image. Hard to dismiss.

Another tempting image: the thought of Steve Rogers’s skin flushing under a different kind of attention, the hitch of his breath if Yakov -- Bucky, to Steve, he gets to be Bucky with Steve, and he thinks that might be a small part of the appeal -- would run his mouth, open and hot, along his side, the potential pattern of freckles that would surely extend to the sweet, milky skin beneath his navel.

His cock twitches at the thought of how those freckles would taste under his tongue, and he’s sure he’d taste each and every one of them; when he imagines the way Steve’s fingers might fist his long hair and tug, the man’s low, hoarse voice moaning _“Bucky,”_ he has to grip the base of his cock through his trousers to stop from embarrassing himself, or from distracting himself irreparably.

His alarm goes off on his flip phone, the Red Room issued technology, and he clenches his jaw and pushes Bucky a little further under the surface. Yakov swiftly cleans the evidence of his self-inflicted medical attention and exits the safehouse, climbing into the sleek black Mercedes that was sent for him.

As he’s swept away across Manhattan, feeling like a soul chained to Charon’s ferry, Yakov spares a glance to Avengers Tower, wishing it suddenly didn’t look like a lifeboat in a brewing storm.

***

“A bad hit?” Pierce repeats, genuinely surprised.

Yakov looks up from where he kneels, one hand at his side, one over his heart, the way a person conducts themselves when in the presence of the Director.

“Yes sir.” He blinks and looks at a fixed point on the ground to the left of Pierce. “They knew I’d be there. And … sir… one of the men…” He trails off, unwilling to risk being overheard.

When he looks over his shoulder, Pierce clicks his tongue and then taps him on the arm. “Rise, soldier.”

Yakov does so, and looks Pierce in the eye, hoping the small amount of nervousness that he feels is expressed appropriately, but not pathetically, in his expression. Whatever is there seems to surprise Pierce further, and the older man turns and gestures for Yakov to follow him, further back in the open space of the Red Room’s antechamber.

They turn a corner and head down a corridor lined with columns; a grey light filters the space, belying the name of their organization, and in the distance, Yakov can hear the pretty fountain at the center of the bottom floor bubbling. It offers him nothing but increased anxiety -- who can say what sounds lurk beneath the water? The footsteps of more foes? A gun loading?

Pierce leads him into a new room, one with no art on the walls, and no discernible light fixture. The door seals shut behind them, and Pierce waves a hand at Yakov.

“Continue. No one will hear you in this room.”

“Sir, one of the bodyguards, the one that saved Baxtor’s life,” Yakov clears his throat. “He was marked by Hydra.”

“He’d escaped Hydra before?” Pierce’s eyebrows lift, but Yakov shakes his head.

“No sir. He _was_ Hydra. He bore their mark here.”

He points at his neck, to the position where Hydra’s best hitmen have their mark branded, and Pierce hisses through his teeth, seemingly overcome by the news.

“Then why would they order us to kill the senator?” Pierce asks, shaking his head, eyes wide with surprise.

He sighs and adjusts his suit, and Yakov wonders if he’d ever been on either side of a gun before. It’s not the first time he wondered this: when Pierce brought him in, he didn’t participate in Yakov’s physical training, preferring to assist in the mental conditioning needed to become an effective hand of the Red Room. Pierce is tall, but delicately built, with handsome features and grey hair. Perhaps he appeared more the warrior in youth, Yakov decides. That must be it.

But here, with fear and worry painted over his face, Yakov wonders if Pierce has ever truly faced death. Perhaps Yakov is the closest Pierce gets to death. He worries that if something is underfoot, the Director will suffer for it.

This is why he tells him the truth, he decides. To protect the man who saved him.

“Our old friend West called for the senator’s death,” Pierce says, frowning as he thinks. “Let us call him before the Council.”

***

“All I need is for you to explain why our good friend, Winter, was so easily discovered.”

Pierce sits back with a smile, fingers tented as he studies a shaking West across the table. The room is dark, with red curtains blocking out the setting sun, and the high ceiling is decorated with scenes of Greek Mythology; Yakov knows this from past visits to this room. He does not study the ceiling now, not when Pierce has ordered him to stand still and make no noise during the questioning.

The other Red Room leaders, the Handlers, those whose names Yakov has never been given, whose names he doesn’t care about, stare stonily ahead at West, who clears his throat before trying to answer.

It’s too quiet.

“Louder, boy.” Pierce arches an eyebrow, and West nods, tongue flicking out to wet his lip.

Yakov stares coldly at him when he looks over, and West starts to shake even more.

“I did it for the Red Room,” West whispers, and Pierce smiles benevolently at him, as though that were the right answer. Yakov’s stomach twists in anxiety and grief -- is that true? “P-please. Everything was for you, Director. For all of you. A rabid dog needs to be put down.”

 _Rabid dog?_ The still-human parts of Yakov twitch in irritation. _Rude._

“Oh, my dear West.” Pierce sighs and stands, straightening his suit jacket while crossing over in front of the table. “You swear this is true?’

“I swear it.” West bows his head as Pierce stands in front of him, still smiling.

“And you swear your loyalty to us?” Pierce prods, and West nods again, frantically.

“I have complied. I will be ready to comply.”

“Good boy.”

The movement is too fast for most to track, but Yakov’s eyes follow Pierce’s hand as he pulls a gun from inside his jacket and puts a bullet in West’s head.

None of the Handlers seem fazed by this decision, and Yakov does not blink either. Pierce sighs, turning and setting the gun on the table behind him. Masked guards enter and pick up the body of West, exiting as quickly as they entered.

Without a word, the Handlers push back from the table in one accord and exit the room. Yakov waits to be dismissed, but Pierce only watches as Cleaners come in and begin to scrub the floor. One hurries forward and polishes his shoe, where a small spray of blood landed when West hit the floor.

“Thank you, dear,” Pierce says warmly, and he turns with Yakov with that same kind smile.

Yakov relaxes slightly, and when Pierce indicates for him to follow him through the side door, he doesn’t hesitate in following him. Whatever anxiety has been plaguing him this day, and whatever fear shot through him when West implied that Yakov was a _rabid dog_ who needed to be put down by the Red Room, dissipates in the obvious affection and preference the Director shows for him.

He may be a rabid dog -- but he’s their best dog. He knows this. No one’s record matches the Winter Soldier. If it did, they might have succeeded in killing him today.

“I will discover who ordered West to make his … lethal mistake,” Pierce assures him as they walk side by side through the compound.

Yakov nods eagerly, buttoning his suit when he sees Pierce doing the same. This man has saved his life so many times, and saved the most important thing in Bucky’s life, before Bucky became Yakov. The debt will never be repaid, it seems; but, the Director is kind to him, and does not kick at him the way other master’s do. He is pleased with Yakov’s spirit, and with his work.

He might understand --

“Sir,” he says quietly, and Pierce nods, indicating that it might be alright to continue. “Sir, might it be a convenient time for me to retire?”

“Retire?” Pierce’s eyebrows almost reach his hairline.

“Yes. If the Red Room has members who question my existence,” Yakov coughs lightly, “I don’t want you to get caught in the middle, certainly, but also … maybe I am no longer effective.”

These are all things that are true, things that he thinks, so Yakov knows it comes out smoothly, and knows it doesn’t anger the Director to hear them. Pierce has a way of hearing lies and even half-truths: he’s sure that was why the Director found it fit to eliminate West in the councilroom. There are _other_ reasons Yakov might seek retirement; the desire to be a man again, the desire to be Bucky, to see if Steve Rogers might like Bucky better than Yakov, and maybe even to see _her_ again. Even if it were only one time. He wants to know that she’s safe, that none of this was a mistake. He can discern that with a glance, he’s sure.

“Yakov,” Pierce stops walking, and they face each other. A hand grasps his arm, the warmth of it leaking through Yakov’s suit. “ _Yasha._ ”

The endearment soothes his nerves further.

“What’s this? You doubt the Red Room’s use for you? You doubt your place in our grand design?”

“Yes sir,” Yakov admits, ducking his head. “I - I was almost killed today. I fear I am no longer an appropriate messenger for you.”

“That’s simply not true.” Pierce pats his cheek consolingly, and Yakov smiles under the attention, something in him desperate for it to be real, for Pierce to see him as a son. Truly, he’s thought of him as a father, since that terrible night where his old life ended and new one began. “You are the most perfect weapon I have ever created. The perfect soldier. I am as proud of you now as I ever was.”

“Thank you, sir.” Yakov bows slightly, and Pierce tsks at him. “I only want for you to be pleased with me.”

He couldn’t give a damn if the Red Room or Hydra was pleased with him, he realizes. As long as Pierce is pleased, he’s made no mistake. He knows this.

He knows Pierce will be forgiving if he discovers that Yakov, the ghost, has a date as Bucky, the man, on Saturday morning. Pierce would be happy for him, he knows. In a small part of a fantasy world, Yakov lets himself imagine introducing Steve to the man who’s become a second father to him.

“Ah, Yasha.” Pierce puts his other hand on Yakov’s face, and he leans into the touch more, risking lifting his eyes to the older man’s face. All he sees there is warm affection and as always, a burning purpose. “You have another mission, my boy.”

Yakov nods, and when Pierce pulls his hands away from his face, he kneels, bowing his head.

“I have complied,” he intones solemnly, reminding himself it’s to Pierce he swears allegiance, not the Red Room. He can maintain that part of his agency. “I will be ready to comply.”

***

This hit is strangely easy, as though the universe is apologizing for the insult to Yakov’s honor yesterday.

In the grey early light of Friday, he pulls a wire from his belt and walks up behind an unlucky man walking along the pier, an unlucky man who picked the wrong morning routine to fall into, especially as arms dealer. He’d tried to sell nuclear weapons to the wrong country, this dead man who dies so easily at Yakov’s hands, Yakov’s surprised to know the details of the man’s mistake to this extent, but Pierce had been sure to tell him warmly of his use in today’s death.

After he’s disposed of the body properly in the trunk of a car that the Cleaners will pick up later, he smooths out his hair and makes the call to Pierce.

“ _Yasha,_ ” the warm voice greets him. “ _The Red Room thanks you for your compliance. As a show of our gratitude, we would like to offer you a two week reprieve of your duties, effective immediately._ ”

“Sir?” He blinks, disturbed at the generosity of the offer. “Are you--” he stops himself from asking if Pierce is sure. Of course he is sure. He is the Director. He makes no mistakes. “Thank you, sir.”

“ _It is a pleasant gift to give, Yasha. Enjoy your rest. Do you require Red Room services? Perhaps a stay at the Metropolitan?”_

“Thank you sir, I might spend some time there.” Yakov smiles to himself, anticipating a pleasant morning tomorrow. “I have some business to attend to first.”

“ _Of course. I will see you on your return, Yakov. Two weeks from today. Please be punctual._ ”

“Thank you sir.” Pierce hangs up before he can, and Yakov lowers his phone, eyes wide with eagerness.

 _Two weeks._ Practically unheard of for the Winter Soldier. Yakov pockets his phone and heads into the city, flagging down a cab. He needs to prepare for tomorrow.

***

After agonizing over which clothing to wear -- he decides on a leather jacket, red shirt, and tight jeans with boots that he’s owned for two lifetimes -- Yakov heads to Angie’s Diner, the location of which he studiously memorized on Google Maps about twelve hours ago when he was trying to force himself to go to sleep.

 _What if he doesn’t show?_ The thought suddenly occurs to him as he slips into a booth in the diner, the booth in the back corner with the best sight lines to all windows and exits. He’s fifteen minutes early, but the idea of waiting even a minute more to leave his safehouse made him want to scream.

Steve Rogers might not show, and Yakov sinks into the seat, dripping with anxiety. This could go so poorly in a thousand and one ways. He could be made by a rival assassin (wouldn’t be the first time). He could have been followed (unlikely, as he took fifteen wrong turns on his walk here). Steve might realize what he is and try to kill him (he wouldn’t blame him).

So busy is he trying to discern the direction of danger, he misses one.

A woman slides into the booth across from him, and Yakov stiffens, sitting bolt upright.

She’s dressed to kill with a smile sharper than the knife in his boot, poured into a dress that would catch anyone’s eye, even Yakov, whose tastes trend specifically towards men; her brown hair is curled perfectly to resemble a 40s movie star, and her lipstick has been applied with a precision that suggests professional _something._

“Bucky?” She asks, quirking a manicured eyebrow.

“...Yes?” He squints at her, a little more tense now that she’s used the name of a dead man, a name he’s only given to one person in the last twelve years.

“Peggy Carter.” She holds a hand out across the table towards him, and he takes it, wondering why that name sounds so familiar, and that accent of hers. “A friend of Steve’s.”

“Ah.” He nods, admiring the strength of her handshake before they release each other. He sets his hand on the table and fights the urge to drum his fingers like a high schooler at his desk. “He’s not coming, is he?”

“Oh, he is.” Peggy smiles as though she’s told herself a very funny joke. “He might not know that _I’m_ here, but he is coming.”

“Oh, okay.” Yakov nods, relaxing back in his seat and into his role as Bucky. “Good to hear.”

She studies him with a terrifying shrewdness, and he thinks for a wild second she can see a fleck of blood that he might have missed from his business yesterday. But the moment passes and she smiles again, less sharp this time. “You’re fucked, aren’t you?”

“I--” Yakov shrugs and allows himself a small smile. “I’m pretty sure I am, yeah.”

If only because his mind hasn’t let up on a litany of _Steve, Steve, You’re going to see Steve,_ for the last twenty-four hours. If only because his imagination has conjured up a million delicious things he might partake in as Bucky over the next two weeks, if Steve is interested.

“If you hurt him, they’ll never find the body,” Peggy says then, and Yakov stiffens. He’s been threatened before -- it’s part of the job, really -- tortured to an inch of his life, and reborn in the crucible of the Red Room.

That is a legitimate threat. He nods in recognition.

A new voice pipes up then. “Pegs, hon, please don’t terrify my customers.”

Yakov looks up to see a sweet-faced, smiling woman with honey brown hair and pretty eyes. Her nametag says _Angie,_ and a gold band rests on her left hand.

“Sorry, darling.” Peggy sighs and smiles up at Angie, who gives her a broad smile back. “You know how I get about Steve.”

“Steven can handle himself,” Angie says firmly. “And he’d be mortified if he knew his ex-girlfriend was scaring the shit out of his new boyfriend.”

“We’re not--” Yakov says weakly, and both women look at him with a smirk; he falls silent again, wishing the world was a nice enough place where he could be Bucky and be Steve Rogers’ boyfriend.

“Mhm.” Angie cracks her gum and holds a hand out to Peggy. “Let’s hide you in the back before the firecracker shows up and goes off, huh?”

Peggy accepts the hand with a small eye roll, and Angie kisses her, short and sweet before pushing her towards the swinging door.

“What can I get you?” She asks, right as the front door swings open.

On instinct, Yakov stiffens, hand twitching towards the Glock he carried with him today, but it’s not danger.

Well -- not _Red Room_ danger, at least.

It’s a very different kind of danger that walks into Angie’s Diner at 8:53 a.m., looking for all the world like a gift God sent to either reward Yakov or punish him with the promise of damnation. Yakov rises out of the booth, eyes wide enough to drink in the sight of Steve Rogers sauntering over to the table, the morning light hitting his back and lighting up his hair like a candle.

“Steve,” Yakov whispers, and Steve smirks at him.

“Bucky.” He nods, pulling at his maroon, large sweater where it hangs over his skintight black jeans. Yakov drinks in the way the neckline of the sweater pulls down, exposing the hint of prominent collarbone, more of those damned freckles dancing across the skin there. “Hey, Ang.”

He gets a kiss on the cheek from the beautiful diner owner, and Yakov tries not to feel a flare of jealousy (he just met the woman’s wife, after all), and holds his hand out to Yakov, who pretends that the calluses under the man’s fingers don’t make him shiver.

“I guess I know what you want,” Angie winks at Yakov, who feels himself blushing like a maiden.

“You like pancakes?” Steve asks Yakov, who nods (he’d nod yes to anything Steve Rogers asked him) and they both sink into their booth. “My regular then, Angie? Two of ‘em, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” She smirks one last time before shaking her head. “D’you want some condoms, too?”

Yakov makes a mortified noise, his skin flushing harder, and Steve snorts, rolling his eyes and sighing in a deep, disappointed way.

“Thanks, Angie.”

She disappears into the back with a giggle and a waggle of her fingers, and Yakov smiles at Steve tentatively.

“How’s your side?” Steve asks, nodding towards the bandaged stitches.

“Better,” he promises, shifting in his seat. “How are you?”

“Pretty well at the moment.” Steve rests his elbows on the table and peers into his face.

“What?” Yakov asks after a moment of awkward silence. He can’t help but feel Steve can see right through him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Steve shrugs and nods in thanks when a different waitress brings them each a cup of coffee. “Just trying to decide if you’re a serial killer.”

“Uh--” Yakov’s heart slams in his chest, and he fiddles with the handle of his cup as Steve starts to drink his. “...No?” _Sort of? Maybe?_

Steve laughs and sets his cup down. “Peggy already decided you aren’t.” Yakov looks over to the kitchen door, and Steve laughs. “Yeah, I know she’s here. And I know you must have passed whatever test she had because you’re alive.”

“There might have been a threat,” Yakov reports, and his lips twitch at the affectionate huff it earns.

“She means well,” Steve waves a hand dismissively. “She works at SHIELD with me, and she’s saved my life a few times.”

Yakov blinks, hoping Steve doesn’t catch the shift in his expression -- he figured Steve was an accountant, an engineer, maybe someone in HR. But that makes it sound like he’s an operative, and as wonderful and perfect as he seems, Yakov isn’t sure if Steve Rogers should be out there when there are, well, guys like Yakov running around.

“Do you like working at SHIELD?” He asks, hoping that’s innocuous enough to get by.

“It’s alright.” Steve shrugs with one shoulder and tugs on one of his piercings in his left ear. A nervous habit, maybe. Yakov tucks the information away. “I never thought I’d work for the military-industrial complex, but, here I am, three years out of college and in the employ of the people who offered me an internship when I was nothing more than a hungry teenager.”

“Internship?” Yakov smiles. “Never had one of those.”

An apprenticeship, maybe. But internship sounds so...delightfully normal. Yakov is jealous, and in a perfectly normal way. It feels nice.

“What do you do?” Steve asks, brow furrowed.

“Classified,” Yakov says with a smirk, and Steve lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “Alright, I do a lot of freelance work.” Not technically a lie. “Sort of a jack of all trades.” Definitely not a lie.

“That explains the no insurance,” Steve says, and Yakov nods, pleased his half-truths served him so well.

A large part of him twists in guilt for not telling full-truths, but he does want to get to know Steve Rogers -- and he’d rather do that before telling him who, and what, he really is.

They spend an hour after their food arrives talking about nothing, bantering on life and politics. Yakov swears he isn’t political until Steve’s eyebrows lower and he gets a full-on lecture on how apathy towards politics is almost worse than being - _gasp_ \- a Fox-News-watching-Trump-loving conservative in this day and age.

He wipes a hand over his face at the end of the diatribe and peeks out at Yakov.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?”

“Ruined what?” Yakov asks, propping his chin in his hand.

“I pushed too far,” Steve groans and ducks his head. “I’m -- I got a temper, I know--”

“I like it,” Yakov assures him, voice hoarse with how big of a truth it is. “I could listen to you yell at me all day.”

“Well, good,” Steve settles again, giving him a wide smile that warms Yakov from head to toe. “Because I could do this all day.”

Their breakfast is on the house, and Steve asks Yakov -- _Bucky,_ he gets to be _Bucky_ around Steve -- if he wants to go for a walk, and he eagerly acquieses.

They walk around Manhattan for a while, and Yak-- _Bucky_ is pleased to discover that Steve’s accent really is from Brooklyn. They shoot the shit about growing up in their neighborhoods (Steve only five years younger than Bucky, but sixteen blocks away), the horrors of public school, and their shared experiences of getting into back alley fights.

“Although, they probably went better for you than me,” Steve notes, nudging Bucky with his elbow.

Bucky chuckles and nudges him right back. “Wouldn’t be too sure about that, pal. I got my ass handed to me a few times.”

“Is that so?” Steve eyes his body as though weighing his physicality, but Bucky knows he’s checking him out, and a flare of heat hits his gut strong enough to almost knock him over, or knock him into Steve so he can kiss that smirk off his mouth.

“Yep.” Bucky wants to hold Steve’s hand, but Bucky’s hand is still Yakov’s hand, and he’s growing increasingly torn over the wisdom of entangling himself with someone who thinks Yakov’s someone else. “And I bet, even if you got your ass kicked, you were still able to deliver a Steve Rogers lecture from the ground.”

Steve glares up at him for a second before leaning fully into Bucky’s side; on some long-buried instinct, Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulder and holds him closer.

“Punk,” Steve mutters, swiping at Bucky’s side, almost hitting his stitches.

“Jerk,” he answers easily enough, tilting his head back to soak in the sunshine, which is almost - but not quite - as warm as Steve Rogers.

***

(He would have done well to remember that warmth meant the end of Winter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading -- I hope this still interests y'all, because it's about to get....wild.
> 
> (I don't intend on Bucky/Steve having sex until Steve knows who Bucky is, so that part of identity issues can be resolved if you're worried!)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!!!


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